


Someday

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: There were moments during their long time together on Earth when Crowley couldn't resist telling Aziraphale he loved him. But the angel never replied--until after the world nearly ended.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 107





	Someday

Crowley never intended to fall in love with an angel. It just sort of happened.

“Demons don’t love angels,” he told himself far more often than he wanted to, for far too many days and nights over thousands of years. The fact that it wasn’t true perplexed him deeply.

“Aziraphale has made it perfectly clear that we are hereditary enemies,” he told himself one night in ancient Egypt, after a particularly pleasant evening at a tavern with the angel. “He would never love me in return, other than that blasted generic angelic glow of love for every creature that crosses his path. I’d be about as lovable to him as a scorpion or a slug. Get over it already.”

He didn’t get over it.

The thing was, Aziraphale was too damned friendly for a hereditary enemy. Those words were simply words with no real meaning – a stock phrase that the angel used in public places, just in case anyone was listening who might object. In private – a cozy nook in the back of a restaurant, or a solitary bench in a park – in such places, Aziraphale talked freely. There he would smile as they chatted, and would laugh, and there he would be the best friend in the world, his only friend in the world.

They were companions on a long journey through time, and over the long centuries, they would meet whenever, wherever they could, and Crowley fell more and more in love with an angel. Aziraphale was kind, and generous, and genuinely interested in what Crowley thought about anything and everything, and they often tired the sun with talking, and sent it down the sky.

“It’s absurd,” Crowley told himself more often than he wanted to. “I can’t love an angel. Besides, he’s fussy, and twitchy, and far too concerned about _doing the wrong thing_ , which this friendship certainly counts as.”

And then he would run into Aziraphale again, and the angel would be worried about something going wrong, and he’d have that little pout to his lips and that little furrow in his brow, and he would _look_ at Crowley with that pleading expression which said loudly and clearly _please help_ …and all of Crowley’s determination to stop loving the bastard would crumble into ashes. He would always help. Always.

Because the smile that lit up the angel’s face afterwards was totally, utterly worth it.

And so Crowley fell in love with an angel, and it drove him crazy, until that fateful century – was it the fourth or fifth one Before Christ – he no longer remembered – when he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

They were in Ostia, taking an evening stroll along an empty beach. Gentle waves lapped the shore, a light breeze cooled the heat of summer, and his hereditary enemy was chatting away about grapes and harvests and vintages and his eyes were alight with joy, and Crowley couldn’t take it one more second.

“I love you,” he said.

There was the briefest pause in Aziraphale’s discourse, and then he waved his hand at the setting sun. “It’s been quite the perfect summer weather for a good grape harvest, I believe.” 

Crowley gulped. _Didn’t he hear me?_ “Um…yeah? That’s good.”

“Yes, it will be splendid. We ought to buy up a few of the better vintages and store them away for a century or two. They’ll be ever so lovely then.”

“Right. Good idea.” And they strolled on, talking idly about grapes until Crowley reached the conclusion that Aziraphale truly hadn’t heard the words he’d spoken at all, or else he had, but was steadfastly ignoring them, just in case someone was listening who might object.

Either way, it was perplexing. But at least he’d gotten it out there, and out of his system, and now he could relax – or so he thought. 

He never did relax.

*

The second time he said it was in Wessex, 537 A.D. That date was etched in his memory, as one of the few – blessedly few – times when he and Aziraphale argued, so much that Crowley worried he wouldn’t see the angel again for decades. As it was, he didn’t see him for an entire week, and was just about to track the angel down to apologize when Aziraphale surprised him by doing the same thing.

He turned up at the Black Knight’s castle late one night, bearing a flagon of mead. Crowley took one look at him and burst out laughing. Aziraphale had come in disguise, or so he believed, trying not to arouse suspicions. He wore plain brown woolen trousers with an overlong tunic of the same material – all of it pristinely clean, without a single threadbare spot or hole.

“What are you playing at?” Crowley asked as he ushered Aziraphale into the great hall. 

“I’m a peasant.” Aziraphale set down the flagon on the huge oak table.

“You’re an idiot.” But Crowley said it with deep affection. He ran his long fingers along the angel’s sleeve – a spotless, white sleeve beneath the harsh woolen tunic. “Like a prince playing dress-up.”

“Well, I have _standards_.”

“A peasant with standards. Right.” He smiled as he snapped up two tankards to pour the mead into. “And why have you graced my castle this night, bearing this gift, oh lowly peon?”

Aziraphale blushed. He picked up his tankard and took a long drink. When he finished, he said, “I came to say that I’m sorry for sniping at you earlier. It was unexpected – your suggestion to cheat Heaven and Hell – I reacted badly.” He held up the tankard in a toast. “Please say it’s all right?”

Crowley clinked his tankard against the angel’s. “It’s fine. I get ideas sometimes that are probably stupid. Or foolhardy. But it’s all right. I’m sorry, too.” He took a sip of the soothing liquid. “Come on, let’s get nicely drunk, shall we?”

They did.

After they finished off the mead, Crowley called out for one of his servants to bring wine, and as the meek fellow scurried off, Aziraphale made a casual, disparaging remark about his servant’s stained, worn tunic. 

“Oh, that does it, Angel.” Crowley unceremoniously hauled him up and pulled him out of the great hall. Aziraphale attempted to resist but was too drunk to be effective, and soon they were outside in the courtyard. There had been a good, steady rain earlier that day, and under the blaze of a full moon, Crowley found a nice muddy puddle. “Peasants do not have _standards_ ,” he said as he pushed his friend down into it.

“You foul fiend!” Aziraphale yanked at Crowley’s legs, and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground as well, and muddy with it. 

“Stuffy angel!” Crowley smeared mud on Aziraphale’s tunic. 

Which led, inevitably, to a great deal of mud everywhere, on every part of each other’s clothing they could reach, as they slipped and slid and got entangled and tried to get untangled in a drunken, sprawling, gloriously filthy battle with a great deal of yelling and laughing which ended in gasping exhaustion.

They lay flat on their backs, side by side. Crowley gazed up at the moon. “I’m not really a foul fiend.” He looked over at Aziraphale, but couldn’t see his expression beneath all the mud. “Am I?”

“It was merely an expression, my dear fellow.” Aziraphale let out a long sigh, and he shoved himself up to a sitting position. “You’re my _friend_.”

“Good.” Crowley longed to see the angel’s face clearly. He sat up, and snapped his fingers to produce two tankards of water. He poured one over Aziraphale’s head, and handed the second to him so he could return the favor.

“That’s a little better.” Aziraphale smiled.

Crowley studied his friend’s clothes, which were still caked with mud, and his face, which now had muddy streaks of water down it, and at his hair, all wet and straggly. “You look ridiculous.”

“So do you.”

“And adorable, and lovable.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said, you look lovable.” Crowley paused, though only for a second. “I love you.”

Aziraphale hiccupped. He held up the tankard. “Can you fill this with more wine, please?”

_Was he deaf?_ Crowley snapped his fingers, and both tankards filled with wine. “There you go.” He took a long drink. Maybe Aziraphale had some sort of miraculous filter that magically prevented those three special words from ever reaching his brain. 

Or perhaps he was just afraid. His dear friend was often fearful, or anxious, and Crowley regretted adding to his discomfort. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up.” He struggled to unsteady feet, and held out a hand.

Aziraphale took hold, and allowed himself to be pulled up, and together they staggered back inside, where neither of them mentioned anything to do with love.

*

In 1601, it was Crowley’s turn to apologize. 

As soon as Aziraphale returned from his trip to Edinburgh, Crowley treated him to a showing of the surprise smash hit _Hamlet_. But although the angel expressed delight at how successful the play now was, Crowley couldn’t help noticing how much his friend shifted and wriggled about in his seat, and how he winced now and then.

“What’s wrong?” he asked during a scene break.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Merely that long horseback ride – as I believe you said, horses are hard on the nether quarters.”

“You mean your arse is sore? Why don’t you perform a healing miracle on yourself?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I got a warning recently about overusing frivolous miracles.”

“That’s not frivolous!” Crowley felt incensed at Heaven’s nitpicking ways. “Let me do it for you, then.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” Aziraphale twisted his fingers round each other. “What if someone _noticed?”_

“No one will know. Besides, it’s sort of my fault.” Crowley couldn’t look at him as he said it. He stared at his own feet, feeling guiltier by the second.

“It is? How?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Er. Mm. Ah. Well, you know that coin toss I did to decide who had to go to Scotland?” He bit his lower lip. “I, um, well – it was rigged.” He finally looked up to gauge Aziraphale’s reaction. 

A pair of angelic eyebrows shot upwards. “You cheated?”

“I did.” Crowley looked away. “I’m sorry.”

Then he waited for his comeuppance, waited for Aziraphale to get angry at him, to spurn their friendship, to walk away. A gnawing sensation filled his gut as he waited, distressed by his own selfishness.

The play started up again, and in the noise of the crowd, he barely caught Aziraphale’s reply. Crowley looked at the angel, who seemed more sad than angry. “What did you say?” He moved in closer to hear.

“I said, ‘It’s all right. I suppose that it’s in your nature.’ You’re a demon. Cheating and lying are what you do.”

“No! I don’t – not with you.” But he had, and Crowley hated himself in that moment. He’d thought he’d been so clever with that coin toss, and had felt pleased at getting out of an onerous task. Now, after seeing his friend’s discomfort, he only felt dismay. “I mean, yes, I did, but – but I don’t usually do anything of the sort, not with you. You’re my friend. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry.”

“It is hard to fight one’s nature,” Aziraphale said softly. He lay a hand on Crowley’s sleeve. “I ought to know.”

“What?” That honestly puzzled Crowley. He stared at the hand on his arm, felt its warmth. He swallowed. “You’re an angel. You don’t need to fight your nature—”

“I do.” Aziraphale took his hand away, all too brief a touch. “Every time I see you. Every time we agree to perform each other’s tasks. My _nature_ would send you away. My nature would never have allowed this closeness in the first place.”

Crowley closed his eyes, and sighed. Of course it wasn’t in an angel’s nature to care for a demon. Nor was it in _his_ nature to want to be near an angel, or to love one. He had known that from the beginning, and yet he couldn’t help it. _Damn_. Why had he been sent to Earth, where the only being he could possibly have a long-term relationship with was the one being he could never be allowed to love?

He opened his eyes. “Thank you.” It was all he could think of to say, at first. Aziraphale had just admitted that being his friend was more important than remaining true to his Heavenly calling. And that was worth a great deal. “I promise never to lie to you again, Angel.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Aziraphale favored him with one of his joyful smiles. “Now, about this play – it’s rather long, and I wonder if perhaps we could catch the rest of it another evening?” He winced again as he squirmed on his seat.

“Absolutely. It will be my treat.” 

They made their way through the crowd, and out of the theatre. Though they dwelled in different neighborhoods, miles apart, Crowley paced alongside as Aziraphale headed towards his home. They didn’t speak much. 

When Aziraphale arrived at his lodging place, he turned to Crowley and said, “Perhaps it might be better if we took turns from now on, for any of our ‘Arrangement’ duties, hm? No more coin tosses.”

“Fine.” That lack of trust hurt him. “I won’t break the promise, though. I wouldn’t do that. But fine. We’ll take turns.”

“Thank you, my dear. Then I shall bid you good night.”

The use of _my dear_ softened the pain a little. As Aziraphale turned and walked up the steps to his door, Crowley said softly, “I love you.”

Whether he heard it or not, Crowley never knew, for the angel simply walked through the door without looking back.

*

And so they went on. Sometimes they fought again, and Crowley hated those times. He hated the mistakes he made, whenever he asked too much, when he asked the angel to go against his nature just a bit too far. 

And sometimes, when Aziraphale fell back on his _holier-than-thou_ refrain, Crowley wondered why he kept trying to love him. 

But he did keep trying. Even after that wretched day in 1862, when he asked for much more than he’d ever asked before, the day when Aziraphale fell back into Heaven’s line harder than he’d ever stepped back before. Crowley’s world turned darker than day.

_Give it up_ , he angrily told himself. _He doesn’t care about the friendship as much as you do, and he never will_. It was a fool’s quest, this chasing after an angel’s affections. After all, Aziraphale had never once answered his declarations of love. 

Years went by, and Crowley managed to steer clear, to stay away. Years and years passed by in loneliness. He wouldn’t apologize this time, not after Aziraphale had spoken such hurtful words. _Fraternizing._ No doubt the angel expected him to come running back, as he always had before. Too bad. He was determined. _Not this time_. 

The days and days went by, and he went through the motions of his demonic duties mechanically, and the years passed on in a blur while the ache in his heart refused to diminish.

And then one day near the turn of the century, he saw Aziraphale in St. James’s Park, standing at that same spot where their argument took place. He leaned against the same railing, tossing food to the ducks.

Crowley stepped behind a tree, but of course the angel would know he was near – they could sense each other’s presence anywhere on Earth. He didn’t turn to look towards Crowley, who kept his distance.

He watched Aziraphale, and was surprised at how blank the angel’s expression was, and how his motions seemed rote, without feeling. If he was enjoying feeding the ducks, it did not show, for he never smiled as he had always done in the past. When he finished tossing the food, Aziraphale turned and walked slowly, methodically back towards his bookshop, a lonely figure in a park full of people. 

Crowley walked back to his Mayfair flat, and there he took out a sheet of thick cream paper and a fountain pen. He wrote _I love you_ , _as always_. _I won’t stay away forever. I will come when you need me._ Then he folded it, and sealed it with wax.

He waited until late into the night, when the bookshop lay quietly in darkness, and he affixed the note to its front door. Then he strolled across the street to stand in an alleyway, and there he watched for hours until just after dawn, when in the soft gray light, he saw the door open. 

He watched as Aziraphale spied the note and took it down. The angel held it to his nose to sniff it, and then he glanced up and down the street. He would know that Crowley was nearby.

He watched as Aziraphale broke the seal, and read the note. He waited.

There was, he thought, an eternity in that moment, stretching out from the day he’d stood on a wall in Eden all through the hundreds of thousands of days until this place, here and now. 

Aziraphale looked up. He gazed around the street, up and down its length, until it settled on the alleyway where Crowley stood hidden within its dark, protective walls. _You can’t pretend you didn’t hear me say those three words, not this time._

He waited. 

Aziraphale, his eyes focused on the alley, nodded once. Then he tucked the note into his vest pocket, smiled softly, and turned to go back inside his bookshop.

Crowley released a long-held sigh. Someday, everything would change. It had to. Someday, things would be different between them, he knew that in his heart, in that moment. Just give it time…always more time…and they had an eternity of time, after all.

_If only_ …if only they had no constraints. If Heaven and Hell would just leave them alone someday, maybe they would have a decent chance. 

_Someday_.

*

And then, after another century, give or take a decade or two, _Someday_ actually arrived, much to Crowley’s amazement.

“To the world,” he said to an equally amazed and joyful angel, who answered the toast with a loving gaze beyond anything Crowley had ever imagined in his dreams – and he had imagined quite a lot.

After the Ritz, they took a stroll through the park, and after the stroll, they walked on to the bookshop, and once inside the bookshop, Aziraphale put the CLOSED sign outward, and turned the lock. Crowley sauntered over to the sofa as he always did, to sit in a languid sprawl – only this time, for the first time in all the times he’d been there, Aziraphale, after carefully hanging up his coat, came over and sat down beside him.

“My dear,” he said in low, soft tones, “I have been silent for an exceedingly long time on a topic of great importance between us.”

Crowley felt a sharp tingling up his spine. _Someday…_ “Well, the walls have ears.” He considered the way their world had recently changed. “That is, the walls _used_ to have ears.” _And I was too careless with my words, and you were too cautious_.

“Ostia,” Aziraphale replied. “Four hundred and fifty B.C. That was the first time you told me that you loved me.”

_Ah._ So he hadn’t been hard of hearing, or under a miraculous spell. Merely keeping to his angelic nature all the time. “I did.”

“Wessex, five hundred and thirty-seven A.D. That was the second time.”

“Mm-hm. Even though you were covered in mud.”

“London, after _Hamlet,_ was the third time you said it.” Aziraphale’s hand drifted over to Crowley’s leg, and found a resting place there.

“Didn’t know if you heard me.”

“I did.”

“Gave up saying it after that. Decided to write it out for you the next time.”

“Yes. I still have that note, you know.”

Crowley lay a hand atop Aziraphale’s. “You never answered.”

“No.”

“Was it only fear of Heaven?” Crowley interlaced their fingers. “Or was it something else?”

“I did fear Heaven.” Aziraphale’s fingers pressed gently against Crowley’s. “But I feared Hell even more. As you once told me, your lot was not in the habit of sending rude notes. I simply couldn’t risk their finding out how deeply I felt about you.”

“Shall I give you another opportunity, now that we’re free of them both?” Crowley brought their joined hands to his lips, and kissed Aziraphale’s fingers. “I still love you, you know.” He smiled. “That was the fifth time.”

“Rather astonishing, all in all.” Aziraphale shifted closer. “And of course, it was against both our natures, and yet—” He drew their hands downward, away from Crowley’s lips. “I do have an answer.” Then he leaned in to kiss him.

_And yet…and still…_ Aziraphale kissed him, and Crowley wondered how he had lasted so long without that touch… _from the beginning, all the way until now…_ he brushed his lips against an angel’s soft lips, in a seeking caress… _and yet…and still…_ he pressed a little stronger, a bit deeper, briefly let go to return again and again… _against our natures…well, nature be damned…_ he kissed Aziraphale while his whole body shivered, while he felt the angel’s body tremble against him… _love will last…all this time, all the time to come…_ Crowley lost himself to an angel’s touch, over and over, and he knew it had to come to a stop and yet—and still—he knew it would never truly end.

Aziraphale broke the kiss first. He brushed a hand through Crowley’s hair, and he brushed his lips against Crowley’s ear and whispered, “I love you.”

The words rolled through him like thunder. And yet…Crowley could not help but smile as he pulled back a little, looked into Aziraphale’s eyes with the deepest of affection, and replied, “You owe me four more.”

Aziraphale smiled in return. “Bastard.” 

“So are you.”

“Point taken.” 

He pulled the angel into a tight embrace. “Let’s be true to our true natures from here on out, all right?”

“Excellent idea.” Aziraphale nestled up against his chest. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Right. You might have spaced those out a bit more.” Crowley ran his fingers through his dear friend’s hair, and along his cheek. “But I suppose that will do.”

Then they kissed once more, and caressed each other, and held each other, and Crowley fell in love with an angel all over again…and an angel loved him back. 

And whether it was a love that was spoken, or a love that was silent, somehow that no longer seemed to matter. 


End file.
